Dust motes dance on a sunbeam
as I scribble down a memory, pot it like a plant:
bedazzled, bedraggled,
dazed by the sun’s gaze
I write romance

Sunlight slants
Where the winds’ forget-me-nots blow
summer days’ sway
into a dreamless sleep
dust motes gleam in the sunbeams
that I keep.

A primal scream seeps into these splintered recollections,
forming sharpened shards,
while meaning schemes
to split the scene — 
just as I try
to focus on what appears,
or seems, as time passes me by.